


Over the Rainbow

by picturestoproveit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Euriarty, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Lesbian Sex (Imagined), Mental Torture, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual Violence, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Obsessive Behavior, Rape/Non-Con Elements (Imagined), Series 2 - 4 canon compliant, Sexual Fantasy, Sherlolly - Freeform, Yeah not gonna lie, incestuous thoughts, it starts weird and stays weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: A brain. A heart. A home. The nerve.Eurus Holmes and the five-year journey to take back what is rightfully hers.





	1. The Boy Who Shoots the Arrows

She lives in a dust bowl.

 

Desolate, ashen, colourless. Her world is nothing but greys mixed with browns, flat terrain and barren fields with no promise of sustenance. Everyday she starves, desperate for nourishment and living with the knowledge that nothing from this earth will ever have the ability to feed her hunger.

 

This was never more apparent to her than it was during the Christmas season.

 

She usually _hated_ Christmas.

 

Always had. The lights, the decorations, the pageantry – wasn’t it was all just a pathetic attempt to disguise an otherwise pallid existence with blinding lights and garish colours?

 

Not to say that she didn’t try to understand the appeal. Like the time when she was three and had sat herself in front of a string of fairy lights for nearly two hours, taking care to line her pupils up perfectly with the blazing bulbs that covered the bottom of the fir tree in the parlor – right eye on a red bulb, left one on a green. She _wanted_ to see what the others saw, so she had taken extra care not to blink, scooting herself so close to the string of lights that the heated glass was near millimeters away from her corneas.

 

But it was no use. By the time Mummy found her, both colours had managed to blur into a muddied, burning mess, one that seared her retinas for days on end and resulted in two visits to a pediatric ophthalmologist.

 

Christmas presents had never excited her either, not in the traditional sense. Not they way they did for other children. Children like her brothers. She can remember watching them from her place on the floor beneath the Christmas tree. Watching their eager faces, their wide eyes, their quick panting breaths as their greedy little hands tore into gift after gift. Their shouts of glee when the gift was up to their standards, and their petty wrinkled noses when it wasn’t.

 

The gluttony of wanting _more more more_ – no sooner would they be done casting a cursory glance at the toy they had just unwrapped when they were on to the next. And they were so _transparent_ \- it was practically written all over their stupid little faces that they _truly_ believed the next gift would be _bigger_ and _better_ than the last. And the process would start anew until the sitting room was a sea of crumpled paper, silver and gold ribbons, and instantly forgotten toys.

 

This display made it apparent to her, quite early on, that it wasn’t the actual gift that produced this joy, but rather the act of unwrapping it. She supposed she could see the allure – the mystery, the anticipation, the discovery of the unknown. Not that she could relate, but she could understand it. Children were simple creatures, for the most part, and seemed to thrive on the high of instant gratification.

 

But she was far from simple.

 

While her brothers savagely ripped through their respective bounties, she dutifully unwrapped her gifts with slow precision, analyzing each crease of paper as she went -

 

( _Mummy had been drinking when she wrapped her Cabbage Patch Kid, as evidence by the sloppy corners and slight color bleed where a drop of gin had touched the wrappings)_

 

-counting the curls of ribbon, the length of the tape pieces –

 

( _Daddy had made a last minute run to the shops for her painting supplies, the ribbon curls haphazard at best, yet still professionally done – a shop girl in a rush to close for Christmas eve)_

-examining the contents of each package carefully. After all, every gift always told two stories – the story of the gift giver’s motivations, and the story of their expectations.

 

Gifts were rarely about the person receiving them, in the end.

 

For instance, she knew that she was expected to be creative, imaginative, and clever, based on the puzzles she received from Nan and Gramps. She was expected to be nurturing, kind, careful – the baby doll from Auntie Sarah told her as much. And Mummy and Daddy wanted so badly for her to find her own place in this world, why else would they purchase a dollhouse nearly as tall as she was?

 

It was a dull display that left her wanting. Not _things,_ of course – there were plenty of _things_ by the end of Christmas morning, more than enough to go around. But rather, wanting to know why humans were so enraptured with physical possessions, and why they thought that the act of gifting could influence the trajectory of the recipient’s course in life?

 

Why were they so enthralled with the immediate release? Why could they not see that anything worth having required practice, patience, and time?

 

Had her eldest brother realized this when she did, perhaps he would have done things differently. Perhaps he would have thought twice about isolating her from the rest of the world. After all, from her stark white holding room in the bowels of Sherrinford, those were only three things she had left in this world, and luckily, the only three things she truly needed.

 

Practice, patience, and time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

What Eurus _had_ always liked was games. It’s unfortunate that no one in her family ever wanted to play them. Understandable, of course – no one liked losing to their baby sister (and lose they did – there wasn’t a game in existence that Eurus couldn’t master). At the age of five, she bested Mycroft at chess in six moves (subsequently, it was the last game of chess she ever played. Beneath that lion-like exterior Mycroft had meticulously crafted lived a true coward at heart).

 

And Sherlock…Sherlock was simply a glutton for punishment. Each contest between the two of them, be it a game of tag or a hand of Old Maid, always ended the exact same way – with Eurus triumphant and Sherlock in tears. Eventually, at the urging of Mycroft ( _“if you can’t control your emotions, Little Brother, there’s no point in trying”)_ Sherlock stopped playing too.

 

Which was such a shame. She loved playing with Sherlock. He laughed, he cried, he yelled – all reactions that her parents and oldest brother wouldn’t _dream_ of giving her.

 

But now Mycroft ( _such a sore loser_ ) had finally agreed to indulge her competitive nature once more. He was giving her a gift, a _fantastic_ gift, this Christmas. He was giving her game.

 

Its name was James Moriarty, and she could not _wait_ to play it.

 

* * *

 

Eurus watches him enter from her seat on the floor and has to bite her lip to keep from smiling too widely. Jim Moriarty, in his slim blue suit, dark glasses, and dangerous leer, is _exactly_ everything she had hoped he’d be – all sex and swagger and criminal insanity, with precisely the right amount of self-loathing and associated overcompensation. He is the whole package, which makes this particular challenge all the more euphoric for her.

 

She is practically high off of his presence – his obsession with her brother is rolling off of him, permeating the walls of her holding cell and igniting every fiber in her body. He presses himself to the glass and watches her with a look of rapture as she gives him what he thinks he wants – the key code to “crack” her youngest brother. She speaks of her fondness of games, of riddles, and of Redbeard. Sweet, sweet Redbeard, and the effect that stupid creature had on Sherlock’s fragile little heart.

 

“He hates riddles,” she whispers, staring at Jim’s parted lips, swaying gently from side to side. “And he HATES games that he can’t win.” Eurus smiles softly, leaning forward to press her breasts against the glass. Jim glances down briefly, noting the display with a slight arch of an eyebrow. “It’s a shame. He could have saved his little pet if he had only paid attention to my riddles a bit more,” she continues. “What could have been, had he not let his emotions cloud his logic. He could have been like us. Like you.”

 

She draws in a sharp breath and takes a quick step backward, continuing to sway her head back and forth- movement that was imperceptible to Jim’s eyes, but not to his subconscious. She watches as he unknowingly tracks her subtle swaying, and she if she were capable of experiencing true humour, she may have laughed out loud.

 

This was going _so well._

 

She locks eyes with him pointedly before reaching down with both hands and lifting her shapeless white top over her head.

 

“I know I might not be your type,” she begins with a wry smile, dropping the shirt to the ground. “But that’s okay. I don’t think I have to be.” She smooths her long, raven hair behind her shoulders, fully exposing her naked chest. Jim takes in her form with darkening eyes and a smirk, watching her closely as she slowly works her hand down the front of her trousers.

 

Now sex. Sex was FASCINATING. The act itself was pretty banal, in Eurus’ opinion, but the power it held over people was simply breathtaking to behold. It didn’t take much observation on her part to put together exactly what sexual proclivities a person held. It was a quick and easy way to toy with her pets, and it certainly never failed to get her exactly what she wanted. The physical release of orgasm was secondary to her (interesting as it was, from a physiological standpoint). The control she wields with it is what truly gets her off.

 

“You know, Sherlock and I are only a year apart. I think they call that Irish twins, don’t they?” she says, biting her lip as she drags a finger through her folds. “Always did like the Irish, they’re so _clever_ with their little words and phrases,” she continues, pulling her hand from the front of her pants and bringing her finger to her lips. She sucks her juices from her finger and grins. “And judging by how many children they have in such a short period of time, they _really_ like to fuck, don’t they?”

 

Jim narrows his eyes and steals a quick glance at the security camera. Eurus chuckles. “They aren’t watching,” she says, approaching him again. She removes her trousers and pants, kicking them to the side before pressing her full naked form against the cool glass. “Not that it would matter, not to you at least,” she purrs. His eyes flash dangerously, and she smiles. “What’s a little voyeurism to someone like Jim Moriarty?”

 

He grins, fixing his gaze on her tits. “Just a regular Tuesday night, to be honest,” he drawls, tracing the outline of her pebbled nipple with the tip of his fingernail. Eurus looks down, noting his hardening cock with satisfaction _. Splendid._

 

Eurus sighs, fixing her face into a mask of innocent submission before sinking to her knees. She watches his cock twitch in his pants and mentally congratulates herself on correctly predicting his triggers. The world may see Jim Moriarty as a homosexual, but it didn’t take Eurus long to figure out that his sexual preference was simply anyone kneeling before him, submitting to his whims and begging him for mercy. Gender was a secondary consideration.

 

“Please, let me see it,” she pleads, making her voice as breathy as possible. Jim wastes no time in undoing his flies and pulling his erection free. She gazes up at him longingly. “I wish I could taste you,” she whimpers, affecting the needy, desperate-for-cock tone that was apparently the height of allure, if her investigation into the world of Internet pornography was anything to go by.

 

“And I wish I could make you gag on it,” he replies, the deadly glint in his eye matching the smile on his face. He begins stroking himself slowly. “Is this really why I’m here?” he asks, his voice low and menacing. “Because I don’t believe for one second that you brought me here just to tell me about your brother’s childhood trauma and watch me jerk off all over your cage just out of the goodness of your heart.” He shudders slightly as he picks up his pace. “What do you really want?”

 

Eurus leans forward, licking the glass in front of his cock. He can’t help but groan and she smiles again. “This has nothing to do with _my_ heart,” she sighs, easing back to the floor and reclining back on her elbows. She threads her fingers through the dark curls covering her sex, languidly toying with her pussy as Jim begins to pump harder and faster. “It’s about my brother’s heart.” She moans softly as she catches the hood of her clitoris with her fingertip. “And you’re going to reach in to that tin chest of his and destroy it for me.” She expels her words in short, breathy gasps for maximum effect. “You’re going to destroy him before he destroys you.”

 

Jim pitches forward slightly, bracing himself on the glass with his free hand. “And what makes you think he can destroy me?” he asks through gritted teeth. He pauses his movements to adjust his grip on his cock before he resumes masturbating, resting both his forehead and the tip of his leaking erection on the cool glass of her cell wall.

 

Eurus bites her lip, partly to keep from moaning too loudly (she had really worked herself into a nice, wet state of arousal by this point), but mostly to give herself a brief moment to focus before she speaks.

 

For her plan to work, she still needs him to believe he has the upper hand. She needs him to believe that he’s the smartest in the room.

 

She has to play dumb. She has to play _needy_. And most importantly, she has to make him to _watch_ and _listen_ and not realize what he’s seeing and what he’s hearing.

 

He will be tougher than the others, no doubt. But she hasn’t lost one yet. In roughly two minutes and five seconds, James Moriarty will become yet another member of her menagerie. Another winged creature to do her bidding.

 

Some of them she owns with personal information, dangling their misdeeds over their heads like an anvil on a frayed rope. By her count, the Sherrinford guard post was home to at least three pedophiles and two rapists (one statutory, one serial).

She isn’t very fond of blackmail –it’s just so simple, so very _ordinary_ , and requires very little brainwork on her part. But she cannot deny that it is efficient and effective, and allows her the freedom to concentrate on breaking the more complex acquisitions.

 

Seduction, also quite basic but _definitely_ more fun, works best on those lonely creatures -the ones who quietly blend in, the ones who are _starving_ for someone, _anyone_ , to notice how special they are. The surgeon in the infirmary and the night watchman are putty in her hands as she gushes over their kindness, their smiles, their eyes (“ _I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes as blue as yours”)_ and how much she _appreciates_ them, and everything they have done for her, and honestly, she has NEVER felt this way about anyone before, EVER. She offers them gentle touches, sweet kisses, and murmurs of promises that they truly believe she will keep (“ _We’ll be together, once I’m well._   _We’ll live in the country, and oh, we’ll be so_ happy _”)_. It’s fascinating to her, the things people are willing to overlook for the promise of acceptance and affection.

 

Now, _hypnosis._ That was her greatest, most potent spell. Hypnosis took slightly longer to master, but once she did, there wasn’t anyone she couldn’t have (save for her eldest brother. Even after all this time, he still refused to play with her). Her technique was a true symphony of skills – a vocal cadence of 45 to 60 beats per minute, covert repetition of key phrases, eye movement manipulation tactics, suggestive amnesia, just to name a few _._ It was truly a masterful dance, one that required precision choreography. Eventually, through practice and patience, she was able to lull three psychiatrists, two government officials, and one very boring governor into a state of post-hypnotic compromise before they finally caught on to her game. By then it was too late, of course. False memories implanted, trigger words engaged – there wasn’t anything they could do about it. They were helpless, and more importantly, they were _hers._

Flying monkeys, the lot of them. At her beck and call, ready to serve at a moment’s notice. And Jim Moriarty will be the best of them – flying the highest, carrying the most weight, and ultimately delivering her most cherished prize.

“You won’t have any choice. The choice won’t be yours,” she begins in a careful staccato. She nods her head in time with her words, and quickly flicks her eyes to the right. Jim follows her gaze without realizing it, so focused is he on his impending orgasm. Eurus smiles and licks her lips, having successfully activated his visual cortex (the most effective way to invade someone’s brain, in her opinion. Imagined or not, graphic images are difficult to remove once they’ve taken root. )

 

“You are his prisoner, and only he can release you,” she continues. “He can release you when he marks you as his equal, and when he does, you’ll be free.”

 

_Another sharp nod._

 

“You think he’s an angel, and that bores you, and boredom will be your destruction. Staying alive will be your destruction. Your freedom is in the fall.”

 

 _Eyes to the right_. _Sharp nod._

 

“He’s on the side of the angels, and you are his captive. You must die as equals to truly be free,” she whispers. “Die as equals to destroy him. Die as equals and you will succeed. You will bring him to me.”

 

Eurus watches in triumph as Jim’s gaze turns glassy. It’s only for a millisecond, but it’s enough. She has him.

 

She relaxes and rises to her knees before plunging two fingers into her cunt. “Forty-nine seconds left,” she gasps and begins riding her fingers with wild abandon. “Come with me, please. I need you to. I need _you_ , _please_.”

 

He’s coming before she can even finish her plea, thick white ropes of ejaculate spurting up the glass and running down his hand, coating his shaft. Eurus feels the walls of her cunt begin to clench and pulse around her fingers, and her orgasm hits like a storm, wild and twisting and wonderfully destructive.

 

She rides out the cyclone of pleasure in silence, her eyes wide and completely focused on her brand new acquisition (who had already removed a handkerchief from his suit pocket and was wiping come off of his hand and dick in a bored manner).

 

“I assume you have someone who can take care of that?” he says, nodding indifferently at the semen that was slowly dripping down the glass. He tucks his cock back into his trousers and straightens his tie apathetically.

 

Eurus nods silently and stands, reaching for her discarded clothing. “I’ll be in touch,” she whispers with a smile as she pulls her pants over her hips. “I may need you to do me a few small favours later on.”

 

“I don’t believe in small favours,” Jim sneers, “unless there’s something in it for me.”

 

Eurus pulls her shirt over her head before answering. “There will be, I promise,” she soothes, pulling her long hair out from her collar and away from her neck. “Everything you do from here on out will benefit you just as much as it will me.”

 

The red light of the security camera flicks on, and Eurus shoots her big brother a winning smile. “Thank you, Mr. Moriarty,” she says sweetly, still staring into the lens of the camera. “I wish you a happy Christmas.”

 

She doesn’t watch as Jim leaves, choosing instead to reach for her Stradivarius and bow. She sits on her bed, back to the camera, and plays the same four bars of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” throughout the night.

 

The final golden, gleaming brick in the road had been cemented into place, and all there was left for Eurus to do was wait.

 

Practice was complete.

 

Patience and time were all she had left. 

 


	2. As Coroner, I Must Aver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quid pro quo, Mr. Holmes. Quid pro quo.

 

She’s brought to a small debriefing room, wrists and ankles shackled, flanked by two guards (the restraints are just for show, of course, but given who her audience is this evening, they are a necessary piece to her performance).

The guards gently guide her through the vestibule and ease her into a cold metal chair (one that was now safely bolted to the floor- the direct result of an incident involving Eurus, a psychiatrist’s spinal column, and an errant chair leg several years prior). They lean over in tandem to secure her ankle restraints to the lower rung and fasten the attached leather belt across her lap before taking their leave. The door slides shut behind them, and Eurus waits patiently for her brother to turn around and acknowledge her.

Several moments of heavy silence pass before Mycroft finally spins in his seat to face her. He leans forward, placing his elbows on the small steel table before him and folding his hands beneath his chin.

“I take it you know,” he begins tersely, his icy stare fixed at a point just slightly below her hairline. He hasn’t looked her in the eye since they were children, and Eurus could hardly blame him. He knew exactly what she was capable of, and had admirably honed his defense mechanisms to near perfection over the years.

Eurus stares at him innocently and says nothing.

“Let’s not play games, Little Sister,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “I need you to tell me what you know about James Moriarty’s criminal network, and I need you to tell me _now_.”

Eurus cocks her head to one side and blinks, fixing her face into a reasonable facsimile of confusion.

She watches in amusement as Mycroft’s face turns a lovely shade of pink. “I already know you’re responsible for this,” he all but spits at her. “That’s not why I’m here. You got what you wanted, and now it’s time for you to give me what I need. Playtime is officially over.”

Eurus considers toying with him a bit longer, if only to see how deep a shade of crimson his skin can turn before she relents.

“And how do you presume to know what it is I wanted in the first place, Brother Dear?” she asks with a cold smile. “I can’t say I ever recall you being concerned with _my_ wants before.”

“Sherlock is dead, as is Moriarty. My _presumption_ is that they both died by your hand, and I am not here to garner confirmation from you. We both know that I am correct.”

Eurus laughs. “If they’re both dead, like you say, then the problem is solved, isn’t it?” she asks lightly. “Jim wanted Sherlock dead, I wanted Sherlock dead, and _both_ Jim and I wanted Jim dead. What more do you need to know?”

Mycroft straightens his back and inhales a sharp breath. “Just as I know who you are and what you’re capable of,” he begins, his voice filled with quiet menace, “you know who _I_ am and what I’m willing to do to get the information I need to keep this country safe.”

She snaps forward quickly, her shackles clang against the steel of the chair in a violent explosion of sound. “Oh, are we going to try enhanced interrogation techniques again?” she growls, eyes blazing as she slams her cuffed wrists down on the table.

(Mycroft can’t quite disguise his startle reflex at the sudden onslaught of motion and noise, much to her delight. _Coward_.)

“Which will it be this time, Mycroft?” Eurus continues, flattening her chest to the table and stretching toward him as closely as her restraints will allow. “Waterboarding? Sensory deprivation? Electroshock?” She laughs again, a harsh and humourless sound. “I would have thought by now you’d realize that any information I give to you out of duress isn’t as accurate as the information you pay for.”

Mycroft grimaces. “The last time I ‘paid’ you for information, my brother ended up committing suicide,” he retorts. “Forgive me if I’ve lost faith in the strength of the currency.”

Eurus smiles and slides back into her previous seated position. “Then you have nothing more to lose, right?” she asks wryly. She folds her hands in her lap. “I’m not asking for much at all, really. If you give me my treat, I will give you what you’re looking for. But, if you’d rather try to torture it out of me instead…well, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to vouch for the accuracy of the data I provide.”

She relaxes her shoulders and waits.

Mycroft glowers at her from across the table for several tense moments before visibly accepting his defeat. “If the request is another visitor, the answer is _no_ ,” he mandates, tensing his jaw. His interlaced fingers are squeezed so tightly together his knuckles are white.

( _COWARD_ ).

Eurus shakes her head emphatically. “No, no, nothing like that,” she replies sweetly. “I’m just looking for a little light reading material, that’s all.”

“Reading material,” he parrots disdainfully. “And what sort of reading material would we be seeking? I get the sense we aren’t talking about a subscription to _Cosmopolitan_.”

“Well, as much I would love to stay up-to-date on the latest blow job techniques and the ongoing benefits of kale, I was thinking of something a little more relevant to my interests.”

“Such as?”

Eurus leans forward again, this time with slow, deadly precision. “I’d like the post-mortem report, please,” she requests politely.

Mycroft blinks twice. It’s the only movement he makes, but it’s enough to confirm what she already suspects.

“There is no post-mortem report for James Moriarty,” he says smoothly, a passable attempt at deflection. “Nor is there a death certificate. It was in our best interest not to reveal his death to the public.”

“Nooo, My _croft_ , not _thaaat one_ ,” Eurus sings. “The _other_ one.”

“Fine,” Mycroft says stiffly, after a long pause. He rises from his seat. “I’ll have the report faxed over in a few days.”

“No, you’ll have it faxed over right now,” Eurus commands. She drops the polite façade and glares at him. “I’m not leaving this room until it’s in my hands.”

Mycroft blinks again. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, sister dear,” he responds once he finds his voice. “It’s only been twenty-four hours, the coroner’s office hasn’t even reviewed it yet.”

“Ah, but it’s not going to the coroner’s office, Mycroft,” Eurus replies with an impatient sigh. “As much as I’m loathed to admit, I do know that you aren’t that stupid. The coroner may be under your thumb, but the rest of the staff can’t be trusted now, can they? Politics can be so messy.”

Mycroft’s silence is his assent.

Eurus cocks an eyebrow. “Now, call who you need to call and get me that report,” she instructs coolly. “I’ll wait right here, I promise,” she adds, glancing down at her restraints and jangling her shackles with a purposeful lack of subtlety.

“And why should I? You haven’t given me a single hint as to what kind of information you may be harbouring,” Mycroft counters. “I need to know that this isn’t a bluff.”

“All I know is that you really should be paying more attention to the Balkans.”

Mycroft has the nerve to actually scoff at her. “We _do_ have resources in the Balkans,” he says, each syllable dripping with condescension. “But in case you haven’t noticed, the threats in the Middle East are slightly more pressing at the moment.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Eurus muses, giving him the same regard she would a small, yapping dog. “What if I told you there is something much more potent brewing on the Balkan Peninsula? What if I told you I had names? Locations?” She leans across the table again, staring him down with renewed intensity. “What if I told you that this is _bigger_ than Jim Moriarty? That there is a terrorist cell ready to rise, one that will make Al-Qaeda’s actions look restrained?”

Mycroft considers her with narrow eyes. “If you’re speaking of ISI, we’re aware of their recent mobilization efforts, particularly in the wake of Bin-Laden’s death last month,” he answers carefully. “However, our analyses show they lack the political and financial resources to –“

“Your analyses are ignorant and short-sighted,” Eurus interrupts loudly, and nearly laughs at the pinched, sour face her eldest brother makes in her general direction. “Get me that post-mortem, and I’ll tell you exactly what I know. Courtesy of our dearly departed friend, Mr. Moriarty.” She nods her head toward the mobile in Mycroft’s pocket. “Call now, or the offer is rescinded.”

Mycroft’s colouring has gone from red to green in a matter of seconds, much to her delight, and her eyes light up as he slowly pulls out his phone. “I cannot make this call in front of you,” he says, eyes cast down to his mobile screen. “That is non-negiotable.”

Eurus smiles. “Well then, it looks like you’ll need to step outside for a moment,” she replies placidly. “Don’t let me stop you.”

He is silent as he scrolls through the contacts in his phone. He seems to find the number he’s looking for, and briskly walks toward the exit without as much as a cursory glance in Eurus’ direction.

Ten minutes later, her guards return for her. One of them is holding an envelope.

“I can hold on to this until we get back to your room, mam,” the guard whispers as he unfastens the lap belt. His name is Bolger and he’s one of her favourites. Kind-faced, loyal, and an amateur arsonist responsible for reducing his sister’s highly- prized equestrian barn to a smoking pile of tinder and horsemeat.

“That would be lovely, Raymond, thank you,” she says softly, flashing him her most sincere smile. He flushes proudly, so eager is he for approval and recognition (two things his witch of a sister failed to bestow upon him when he was the manager of her stables).

Bolger and his partner (a young heroin addict with an ample supply of smack, thanks to her) help Eurus to her feet and guide her back to her holding cell. They place her gently on her bed as they remove her shackles, and stand at attention, waiting to be dismissed.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she smiles. She waves the envelope in her hand in their direction. “That will be all for tonight. You’ve both been wonderful. Good night.”

“Good night, mam,” they reply in unison, and take their leave.

The door to the chamber is barely closed before she sits upright, tearing through the cream colored envelope with unparalleled voracity.

(For the first time in her life, she feels the thrill of unwrapping a gift. She finally understands).

There are two documents. The first is a copy of his death certificate. Her eyes scan the lines of text quickly. The information is boring, perfunctory, but a necessary primer to the main event. Everything is handwritten (clearly by a woman’s hand), and signed by M. Hooper, SpR.

 

Eurus checks the corner of the document and finds the seal, signed by K.S. Ellison, Notary Public.

 

(She files these two names away for later, on the off chance that Mycroft has supplied her with a false document, though she doesn’t think he would be that stupid).

 

She tosses the death certificate off the bed and feels her pulse quicken as she begins to read the post-mortem.

 

It doesn’t take long for her to find the mistake.

_The spleen has a smooth, intact capsule covering red-purple, soft parenchyma;_

_the lymphoid follicles are unremarkable. The regional lymph nodes appear_

_normal. The spleen weighs 80 grams._

 

Eurus smiles in triumph and breezes through the remaining report until she gets to the signature line.

 

_M. Hooper, SpR_

 

The report is meticulous, extremely thorough and very, very convincing. Eurus decides she would love to meet M. Hooper, Specialist Registrar, just to shake her hand and compliment her intelligence and outstanding work ethic.

 

And also to inform her that in 1986, after suffering a _nasty_ fall from an oak tree, Sherlock Holmes was rushed to the hospital to have his spleen removed.


End file.
